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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26462866">Go On Home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeish/pseuds/hawkeish'>hawkeish</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Autumn, Awkwardness, Character Study, Dragon Age II - Act 1, F/M, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Angst, I want to give Carver a hug at all times, One Shot, Pining, Sibling Rivalry, Sweet Merrill (Dragon Age), the boy's been through so much, traumatic past</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:01:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,664</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26462866</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeish/pseuds/hawkeish</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver Hawke thinks he has his sister's friends worked out. Well, all apart from Merrill, who is utterly confusing.<br/>Blood mage, Dalish pariah, possibly the nicest person he's ever met.</p><p>What's even more confusing is that she wants to help him.</p><p>A one-shot character study based on some autumnal prompts, about a sad, angry kid catching feelings for an exiled elf who's wiser than people give her credit for.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Carver Hawke/Merrill</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Go On Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <i>And way down in the valley<br/>The trees, they creak and groan<br/>And whisper with the northern winds<br/>So go on home now, go on home<i></i></i>
</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">Carver Hawke is good at three things.</p><p class="p1">The first: swinging a longsword.</p><p class="p1">The second: living in his sister’s shadow.</p><p class="p1">The third: judging a character. Though people never expect it, ironically. People look at him and think <em>big arms, small brain. </em>People see the mabari tattoo and write him off. People don’t know that he counts each copper they loot from corpses and makes sure they’re never ripped off by the murderers who hire them to murder other people, because Ri’s shit with money and so easily distracted by the chance to make a bad one-liner.</p><p class="p1">Marian’s the one chasing the old name. Carver’s the one making sure it happens.</p><p class="p1">Yeah, Carver’s cleverer than he looks. Cleverer than his sister would probably ever give him credit for. He’s got her friends—<em>her </em>friends, because they don’t really give a toss about the little brother—worked out. Currently, most of them are trailing behind her as they wind through Lowtown, drenched in the guts of some unfortunate Tal-Vashoth they’d taken care of that morning. Laughing and joking and ripping the shit out of each other, as usual. People stop and stare, until they see who’s leading the group like some murderous, muscle-bound mother duck. Then, people simply nod and murmur <em>Hawke </em>and carry on with their day, as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening at all.</p><p class="p1">A cool wind whistles through the street, and the sun’s weak and watery as it slips through the gaps between the ramshackle buildings crowded around them. Carver hangs at the back of the group, as far from his sister’s sharp tongue as he can get. After Ostagar, he can’t bring himself to laugh much when he’s just stuck his sword through another person, so he doesn’t join in.</p><p class="p1">Each second he’s silent, Ri’s stifling, pitch-dark shadow smothers him a touch more. He’s the cranky little brother: so serious, so grumpy, won’t laugh at her jokes. But Carver can’t move past the sour taste in his mouth or the heavy, constricting feeling that winds tight in his chest as he walks away from another pile of blood-soaked bodies, so he just tries to breathe through it.</p><p class="p1"><em>In through the nose, out through the mouth. </em>Easy as pie<em>, </em>like his father always told him<em>. </em>The words are spectral, broken, worn and faded by time and memory. But they help.</p><p class="p1">Carver breathes through it, and listens, and lets his mind tick over.</p><p class="p1">“Twenty seems excessive, Hawke. You’re good, but you aren’t aren’t <em>that </em>good. Thirteen? I’ll say there were only the two of us—oh, fine, Aveline, three if it makes it sound more realistic.”</p><p class="p1">Varric’s the most honest liar Carver’s ever come across. Out of all of them, he’s not so bad.</p><p class="p1">“You think that’s how all mages should be treated? Like cattle? Lips sewn shut, chained to their master’s will?<em>”</em></p><p class="p1">Anders is too angry for his own good. For anyone’s good. It won’t end well.</p><p class="p1">“Perhaps then you would know what oppression truly is.”</p><p class="p1">Fenris seethes with fury, too; he’s the equally dramatic flipside of Anders’ coin. Not that the two of them would ever admit that. They’d never admit to the sexual tension bubbling between them, either. But maybe if they fucked, it would do wonders for their blood pressure, and for everyone else’s sanity.</p><p class="p1">“You know, Wesley would have liked it on the coast.”</p><p class="p1">Aveline’s thinking of her dead Templar husband after she’s staved a qunari skull in with his shield. Tells you all you need to know, really.</p><p class="p1">Yes, Carver thinks he has them worked out. Aside from one, that is.</p><p class="p1">“The Hanged Man? Oh, I shouldn’t…I don't fancy a drink, and I need to get all this out of my clothes before I meet with the hahren. Or do you think he wouldn’t mind—no, he would mind, wouldn’t he? Look at me!” There’s a soft laugh, like the burble of a brook. “By the Dread Wolf, what a mess!”</p><p class="p1">Blood mage. Dalish exile. Possibly the nicest person Carver’s ever met. Merrill is an enigma.</p><p class="p1">They’ve ended up outside the Hanged Man. Maker knows why. The last thing Carver wants to do is sit in some twat-filled dive, covered in gore, sipping at a mug of flat, piss-flavoured ale whilst Varric and Marian spin yet another tangled web of untruths.</p><p class="p1">A hand already pushing the pub’s door ajar, Varric throws Merrill a pleading, loving look. “Come on, Daisy…”</p><p class="p1">“Did you not hear? The maleficar needs to scrub off her demon-summoning juice before people realise what she is.”</p><p class="p1">Tutting, Ri reaches out to flick Anders’ nose before he can duck away. “Do shut up, would you?” She smiles at the elf. “Ignore him, Merrill. Won’t you come for just <em>one </em>drink? And you? Will you finally cheer up and have a pint with your favourite sister? I’ll even let you win at cards for once…”</p><p class="p1">An awkward silence hangs in the air as everyone turns to stare at Carver, and only when he feels the pressing weight of too many eyes does he realise he’s finally—<em>finally—</em>crossed his sister’s mind. Ri’s looking straight at him, wearing the expression she always does when she’s forced to think of her sweet baby brother.</p><p class="p1">Some would say she’s the picture of loving, sisterly patience: blood-flecked hands on her hips, a small grin on her face, one eyebrow quirked as she waits for an answer. Some would say that she’s being thoughtful. That she’s trying to include him. That she wants to spend time with the sibling she has left, and that she’s telling him this, in that special way of hers.</p><p class="p1">Carver knows she’s prodding him, testing him, seeing how easily he’ll give in to her demands. And Carver knows she loves him; he loves her so much it sometimes hurts, too. But people don’t understand what it’s like to always play second fiddle. To always be second best, even to their own father. It’s worse, now she’s all he has, apart from their mother. Now that he doesn’t have Bethany, the string to his bow, the person he knew best and loved most in the world—</p><p class="p1">Like a small, helpless bird trapped in a cage, his heart starts thrumming again. His chest is tight, and he can hear his pulse loud in his ears, and he doesn’t know why but he suddenly feels so <em>angry</em>. “I’m not an idiot! You don’t have to <em>let </em>me win—”</p><p class="p1">“Carver! Pal! I was just ragging on you!” Marian interjects, rolling her eyes as Varric and the rest of them head into the tavern. “Are you really going to be like this? I’m trying to be nice! I’ll even buy you the drink!”</p><p class="p1">Is she joking? Has she not seen him take endless blows meant for her? Has she not <em>seen </em>him murder people for coin? “Buy me the drink? We earn the same money! Andraste’s ass, sister, do you constantly have to emasculate me?”</p><p class="p1">Ri laughs, and the sound makes Carver want to drop-kick her into the sun. “<em>Emasculate</em>? My, that’s a big word for you, Carver!”</p><p class="p1">Hands balling into fists, Carver grunts, feeling his chest puff out. Squaring up to his sister is muscle memory. His voice drops lower. “Marian, I swear—”</p><p class="p1">“Carver said he’d walk me home, didn’t you?” Merrill breaks in, before he can snap. “I’d forgotten, but I could really use the help, actually.”</p><p class="p1">Fury had made Carver forget she was there, but the elf’s stood by his side, a hand on his arm, beaming a smile up at him that makes him think, suddenly, of the words <em>pure </em>and <em>good </em>and <em>lovely.</em></p><p class="p1">Strange words to describe a blood mage, but he thinks them all the same.</p><p class="p1">Carver’s mouth is curled into something close to a snarl, but Merrill continues before anger loosens his tongue again. “I get so lost! Silly of me after a month, I know. But everything really does look the same here—there are no trees!—and all the smoke makes it hard to know where exactly the sun is, and… ”</p><p class="p1">Merrill. Walking Merrill home. He’d said he’d walk Merrill home? Surely not. Usually, Carver tries not to talk to Merrill too much, let alone allow the thought of her to cross his mind. Because out of all of them, she’s the one he least understands. Because she’s white noise, a cracked mirror, a mess of twine spilling through his fingers…</p><p class="p1">Ah. Something settles in Carver’s mind, and he realises maybe he’s not as quick off the mark as he thought. He coughs, looking everywhere that isn’t his sister. “I…did. Yes.”</p><p class="p1">It’s clear from the set of her jaw and the glint in her eye that Ri knows this is a handy concoction to avoid a familial scrap, but she lets it slide. “Very kind, brother. Well. Suit yourselves.”</p><p class="p1">Without another word, Marian slips inside the tavern. And then it’s just Carver and Merrill stood, covered in the remnants of other people, in the middle of the street.</p><p class="p1">People <em>are</em> looking, now. Carver can’t blame them. He’s a ratty, six-foot-something sword-wielding Fereldan barely out of his teens; she’s a barefoot, very Dalish elf whose left arm is littered with already-healing wounds, and she’s literally covered in blood. <em>Covered</em>. It’s in her hair, dappling her face, staining in the folds of her scarf. Maker, he wonders, how much can she afford to lose?</p><p class="p1">Blood. Carver thinks of blood and the endless horde at Ostagar and Beth, and his heart starts up again.</p><p class="p1"><em>Breathe, </em>He tells himself quickly, counting to ten, sucking ash-flecked air through his teeth, trying not to make it too obvious. <em>In and out. Easy as pie. Think of nice things, like mother’s babka buns, or how great mabari are, or—</em></p><p class="p1">Or Merrill’s hand, still resting on his sweaty, grotty arm.</p><p class="p1">When she squeezes it gently, the sensation makes him forget how to count. Carver hiccups on a breath, then feels his whole body flare with heat, then mumbles, “Right, home, yes,” and sets off without warning, almost stumbling over his own feet.</p><p class="p1">Merrill exclaims, “Oh, right, of course!” and rushes to follow.</p><p class="p1">Silence wraps around them like a warm, woollen blanket: it helps to dull the violent hum of anger that’s still rushing through him. Their walk’s not as awkward as Carver was expecting, though he’s thankful when they reach the Alienage and the shelter of the vhenadahl. He’s been so aware of her presence—she flits alongside him like a hummingbird, intrigued by every speck of action bursting into life around them—that it’s made him feel jumpy. Nervous. Self-conscious. She’s a strange kind of grace, and he’s a lumbering fool.</p><p class="p1">The Alienage is as decrepit and downtrodden as the rest of Lowtown. Worse, probably. But the vhenadahl is a wonder. Its branches spiral through the air above them, bejewelled with leaves that shine golden in the late afternoon sun. It reminds him of Lothering, of home. It’s the one place in Kirkwall that Carver wishes he could spend more time in. But he knows to stay away, for the elves’ sake. Merrill’s people have enough to worry about without some unknown, stupid shemlen coming to gawk at their tree.</p><p class="p1">People are staring even more here, throwing wary looks at Carver as the two dawdle to a stop beside the vhenadahl’s colossal trunk. He can’t blame them, either, but it doesn’t help his nerves.</p><p class="p1">“Don’t worry,” Merrill says, as if she can sense his unease, smiling warmly at those who skirt past. Nobody returns the favour. “They just think because you’re a very tall human with a sword, you’re probably going to hurt them. It’s only because they don’t know you. And because most humans want to hurt us, most of the time.”</p><p class="p1">Carver’s not sure what to say. “Is that meant to make me feel better?”</p><p class="p1">Merrill lets out a deflated breath. Her face floods with frustration. “Oh, yes, that’s…sorry, I—”</p><p class="p1">“No, Merrill, you’re fine,” he interrupts, feeling a pang of guilt rush through him at her expression. “I—you made a good point. And…” Glancing down at her, he stumbles over his words. Why does his mouth suddenly feel like it’s been stuffed full of straw? “Thank you. For helping me, I mean. I…I wasn’t trying to be an ass.”</p><p class="p1">“I know,” she replies.</p><p class="p1">“You know?”</p><p class="p1">“Well, why would you want to be an ass? It doesn’t sound like a very fun thing to try to be.”</p><p class="p1">Carver scoffs. “True.”</p><p class="p1">“And it’s not easy to love family,” Merrill says, with a fluttering sigh. There’s a sadness in her eyes, and a slightly distant look. “They say want what’s best, but they forget to tell you that they decide what <em>best </em>is. It’s all very confusing. Why can’t they simply say they don’t want to let you follow your own path? That would be much easier, don’t you think?”</p><p class="p1">“True,” Carver echoes, processing her words, thinking of his sister.</p><p class="p1">Only for a heartbeat, though. Because then, Merrill smiles sadly up at him, and and when she does, her vallaslin twists and bends. It’s green as moss against her smooth, tawny skin, and he finds his eyes are tracing it, following the pattern, wondering what it means, wondering how much it hurt.</p><p class="p1">Wondering whether she chose the design, or whether it was what was <em>best.</em></p><p class="p1">“You’re very…” Carver wants, for some reason, to say <em>pretty. </em>But he doesn’t, because that would be weird, and it’s Merrill, and why would he think that about Merrill—enigma, Dalish pariah,<em> blood mage</em>—like that?</p><p class="p1">So he finishes with “wise”, instead, because that’s also true, and she laughs.</p><p class="p1">“People are strange,” she replies. “Like riddles. I’m sometimes good at riddles. I wouldn’t say I’m <em>wi—</em>oh! Look! You have something in your…”</p><p class="p1">Before he realises what she’s doing, Merrill darts up to her tiptoes, reaches out, and plucks something from his hair. The movement’s so small and mundane and intimate that it makes Carver’s breath hitch. Where anger once sparked through him, now he feels slightly anxious, slightly embarrassed, slightly sea-sick.</p><p class="p1">“Is that lucky?” Merrill asks, holding out a leaf by its stalk. Almost as wide as her palm, it’s crisp and bright as a copper piece. It’s lovely. Like her.</p><p class="p1">Desperately, Carver tries to bury that thought. “I, uh, think it’s only lucky when a pigeon shits on your head.”</p><p class="p1">“Ah! I’ll remember that.” Merrill beams wide and lets go of the leaf; it drifts from her hand to the ground, soft as a whisper. Then, she twiddles her thumbs and smiles again, before starting to take a few steps back. “Thank you, Carver. I should really be going. Have a—”</p><p class="p1">“Was it all a lie?” Carver asks, suddenly, before she’s out of reach. “Or just the part involving me?”</p><p class="p1">He’s not sure why he needs to know, but he does. The urge scratches at the back of his mind. People lie all the time. About him, or for him, and it’s never bothered him before. Distinctly, though, he can’t recall Merrill ever being anything but truthful, in everything she does. It’s one of the only things about her that Carver feels that he <em>knows</em>.</p><p class="p1">What would it mean if her only lie was to save him from his anger, from himself?</p><p class="p1">Pausing, Merrill shrugs. “No, I do get lost. And I do have to see the hahren. But I would’ve liked a drink.”</p><p class="p1">And with that, the elf just turns and starts to walk towards her home.</p><p class="p1">She doesn’t hear Carver mumble “I could take you for one”, before he can catch himself.</p><p class="p1">She doesn’t see him wince at his own words, then clench and unclench his fists wildly, then close his eyes for a long second, willing himself to not be so fucking <em>timid</em> as the wind picks up and a shower of golden leaves cascades in the air around him.</p><p class="p1">She’s already gone.</p><p class="p1">Carver stands there, and watches her leave, and his mind ticks over.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for reading! this piece of nothing got me out of my writing slump and has made me really appreciate Carver as a character - I hope you enjoyed it!</p><p>title and epigraph (I can't believe I put an epigraph in, who do I think I am) are both stolen from 'Northern Winds' by Joshua Burnside, whose music is lovely as fuck.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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